


burn my dread

by Knightblazer



Series: Knight of the Renegades [1]
Category: Persona 5, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Persona Fusion, BAMF Greg Lestrade, Crossover, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 13:54:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11358858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knightblazer/pseuds/Knightblazer
Summary: Before he became Knight of the Renegades, he was the disgraced DI, Greg Lestrade.(or, the origin story of how Greg Lestrade became a Phantom Thief.)





	burn my dread

**Author's Note:**

> So I just wanted to write about Lestrade awakening to his Persona but then it exploded into this 10k monster, why.
> 
> This fic is a prequel to [last ace in a lost hand](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11291880), though you don't need to read that to know this since this a prequel and everything. There are some minor continuity snarls with that fic, mostly because I did not expect myself to actually write more of this ridiculous AU but here I am posting this anyway. Still not beta'd or Brit-picked, so apologies in advance once again for the inevitable errors.
> 
> Also there'll be some more headcanon/babbling/notes at the end, if you're interested in that.

The holding cell that Greg finds himself in is barely lit; the light from the (creaky) ceiling lamp is only enough to light a small area around where he sits. The lack of a window gives him no chance to guess what the time of the day might be, though it’s not as if it really matters. In fact, Greg doesn’t even remember how he got here in the first place. The last thing he can remember is trying to settle down for the night, and then…

Before he can further pursue that train of thought the cell door violently slams open in front of him with a loud clang, causing Greg to jerk straight up in his seat from surprise. There’s the soft jangling of chains from below him when he does so, and Greg follows that sound, looking down to blink in surprise at the handcuffs that were locked around his wrists. Had they been there from the very beginning? …and why did he even have them on? Was he actually under arrest?

“Suspect!”

His attention snaps back to the present at that shout. The voice sounded like couldn’t have been any older than twelve. Greg looks back up and this time finds himself staring at a pair of blond-haired, almost identical looking girls (twins?) who _definitely_ fit into ‘no older than twelve’ category. Despite their apparent youth, however, they carried themselves in a way that did not show them as the children that they appeared to be, especially when they were both dressed in uniforms that strongly reminded him of prison wardens. It was honestly quite unsettling.

Greg opens his mouth, a million questions already at the tip of his tongue, but he’s cut off by one of the girls—the one with buns on her head—as she steps forward and grabs him by the chain of his handcuffs. “It’s time for your interrogation, Suspect!” she snaps out, her impatience more than evident. “Our master will see you now!” 

She sharply pulls the chain once she finishes speaking, and the force of it is enough to cause Greg to tumble out from the bench he’s sitting on. He just manages to catch himself before he falls onto his knees, though he winces at the way his ankles protest as he slowly rises to his feet. The other girl—he mentally notes her as ‘Braids’ once he caught sight of her braided ponytail—glances down briefly at the clipboard in her hand once he’s standing up and then stares unblinkingly up at him with one unnaturally yellow eye.

“Please do not cause any delays,” she says, her tone much calmer compared to her twin (or at least, Greg certainly hopes that it’s her twin). “Our master does not wish to wait for long.”

“I don’t—” Greg starts, but Buns cuts him off with another tug of his handcuffs and a pointed glare. It’s enough of a hint and Greg falls silent, his mind whirling as he attempts to figure out what in the world is happening. Is he in some sort of lucid dream? It would certainly explain the handcuffs, or the fact that he’s out of his sleeping clothes and instead is dressed in his usual work attire. He definitely remembers washing himself up and going to bed—plus if this _isn’t_ a dream, then how else did he end up in wherever this bloody place is?

He tries to look around to see if there’s anything about this place that catches his eye, but before he can even start to gather any details there’s another tug on his handcuffs and Greg stumbles to a stop. He turns his gaze back forward and sees that they’ve already come to a stop before an iron-plated door that almost looks far too heavy to move. Buns reaches with her free hand and opens the door with minimal fuss; it swings open silently, revealing the all-too familiar sight of an interrogation room, though it seems to be overlaid with some kind of deep blue hue that seeps into every corner of the place.

Greg can’t help but pause, his mind struggling to catch up with what his eyes are seeing, but Buns pulls at his handcuffs once more and all Greg can do is to stumble behind her, doing his best not to trip over his own feet. It’s a brief walk from the doorway to the table that’s set in the middle of the room, and once they’re close enough Greg finds himself unceremoniously shoved onto the chair. He almost misses the seat, managing to catch himself by the edge of the desk which he holds onto until he gets himself properly settled.

Once done with that, he turns and sends a glare at Buns. “What’s with the bloody roughhousing?” Even as much as Greg hates some of the suspects he had to deal with in the past, he wouldn’t go out of his way to treat people like that. They were still _people_ , in the end, even if some of them were utter bastards.

Buns’ only response was to give him a glare that would have been terrifying on anybody else if she wasn’t a twelve year old girl. From his other side came Braids’ voice, who clears her throat delicately before speaking. “Our master will speak to you now.”

“’Master’, huh,” he quips back before he can think twice about it. “I certainly hope that this master of yours will actually give me some actual answers—” The sentence dies in his throat when he finally faces forward and sees the man who’s watching him from what was supposed to be a one-way mirror. With the large, hooked nose, the bloodshot eyes, the pointed ears and the wispy black eyebrows that contrasts against his hair Greg wasn’t quite sure if he could even say that this person sitting before him as human. However, what unnerves him most of all is the unsettling grin that’s on his face, as if he knows every dark secret that the world has to offer and revels in it.

Greg watches the strange man unfold his arms from his own desk and gestures to him with a hand. “Welcome,” he begins to speak, and even through the glass Greg can hear his voice as clearly as if the man is right beside him. “We are delighted to meet your acquaintance. My name is Igor, and this... is my Velvet Room.”

* * *

In retrospect, Greg _should_ have suspected that something had to be up when he had been given this particular case.

It’s been three months since the death of Sherlock Holmes—two since Greg was allowed to come back to the Yard and work again. Part of him is surprised that Internal Affairs had only taken a month to finish their investigation; Sherlock had, after all, been helping with his cases for more than half a decade, and he doubts that the higher-ups were content to simply just skim through the stuff.

He’s not surprised when they find him clean (Greg may toe the line from time to time but he certainly doesn’t go out of his way to actually _break the law_ ), but he is surprised when they actually permit him to return to work without any other punishments beyond his month away being unpaid.

Or rather, ‘work’, with as many quotation marks as physically possible. From the moment of his return Greg has had nothing else besides cold and simple open and shut cases—none of them that really fall under his division. No murders or homicides for him; it’s all been shoplifters and robberies and the occasional traffic accident when London decides to be unkind. His team has not been happy about it, but it wasn’t as if any of them could do anything about it; all of them knew how lucky they were to even have a job in the Met after the mess that Sherlock left behind.

That doesn’t stop Donovan from complaining when she could. Greg had given her a few looks every now and then when her words got a bit too abrasive, but in the end he couldn’t begrudge her for what she felt. Part of him suspects half of what she says is more of reflex than anything else; once in a while he could see the guilt in her eyes, something that Greg knows is also showing on his own face, the memory of his last conversation with Sherlock. 

Sherlock, who’s now dead and buried six feet under.

Greg can’t help but wonder what the consulting detective will think of him now while he stares at the bloody scrapes on his knuckles and stain on the brick wall where he had been punching at for the last ten minutes. He doesn’t remember when had been the last time that he had actually felt this angry, but right now all Greg wants to do is to hit something until it breaks and then do it all over again.

He knows, _knows_ that it’s the bloody bastard Spencer who’s the real culprit for the murder. But the evidence is pointing to the victim’s brother instead, and unlike before this time Greg doesn’t have Sherlock to swoop in and save the day. The evidence had to have been planted, his alibis forged and the witnesses paid off but he just could not _fucking prove it_.

The worst thing about it all is when Greg had tried to confront Spencer about it. The tosser had just laughed at his face about it and oh-so easily denied it all, demanding proof and evidence—things which they both knew he could not provide. And so Greg had been forced to back down, but before he left the arsehole gave him some final parting words.

_ (“No more of that ‘consulting detective’ to come in and solve your crimes for you, Inspector Lestrade. How dreadful it must be to actually use your own brain once more instead of depending on some fraud.”) _

_That fucking wanker._ Greg hates to admit it but those words are half the reason why he’s even this angry—and if he were willing to pry deeper he would also admit that the anger was more at himself than at Spencer. Because of his moment of doubt, because of his own uncertainties, because of what he had _done_ , Sherlock had chosen to jump off a rooftop and end his life. Greg knows he may not be the complete cause of it but he certainly had been the trigger.

He lets out a frustrated growl and punches the wall one more time, wincing at the pain that shoots up his arm from his hand at the action. He makes a note to stop by a pharmacy and pick up stuff to treat his injuries later; he’ll be regretting this tonight but right now he just needs an outlet for his frustration. He had promised Ian Parker that he would solve the case but now with things like this…

Greg glares at the wall for a few more seconds before he sighs and slowly runs a hand through his hair, ignoring the fact that he might get some blood on it. As pissed as he is, standing around and punching at walls isn’t going to help the situation either. He stuffs both of his hands into the pockets of his coat and makes his way towards his parked car, mind starting to run through the list of what to do next. Confronting Spencer had been a massive failure, but that didn’t mean it would be the end of the line. Since he knew that the evidence and alibis were fake he should try to start going through them one by one, see if there is anything in there he could discredit—

He grabs his phone from his coat pocket and brings it up, ready to phone Donovan and ask her to get the stuff ready when he returns to the Yard—but then pauses when the screen lights up to show something that he knows _does not_ belong to his phone. As far as he can tell it’s some sort of travel planner thing like the kind he’d see when using Google maps , but there was no map and the input consists of three fields that were already filled up for him.

__**Name:** Robert Spencer  
**Location:** Bluecorp Offices  
**Distortion:** Palace 

Greg frowns at the screen, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. Name, location and ‘distortion’? What did that even mean? This was probably some weird note or something Anderson might have sent him. God knows how the man is now these days—the guilt of Sherlock’s death apparently had all but rendered him mad. Half the time when he wasn’t doing his job he was spouting theories and conspiracies or other such rubbish on how Sherlock was apparently alive and in hiding for some godforsaken reason. With how he is now, Greg can barely try to protect the man. If he doesn’t shape up soon, he is going to have to let him go.

Dark thoughts there. Greg sighs and shakes his head, pressing the home button on his smartphone so that he can call up Donovan. The strange window disappears, but in its place is an equally strange icon sitting with all his other apps and Greg knows he definitely did not download anything new recently. He stares at the icon, feeling vaguely unsettled by the strange, eyeball like logo that for some reason reminds him of that weird dream about two young girls in prison warden outfits, the man with the large, hooked nose and some kind of ‘velvet room’ he had the night before he got this case. 

Maybe it was just weird things calling to weird things. Against his better judgement Greg taps on the icon and blinks as it brings back the window from before. So this thing is actually some kind of smartphone app? He goes back to his apps and looks closer at the icon, noticing its peculiar lack of name compared to the others. He certainly had never seen an app without a name before.

He switches back to the window and stares at it some more. Name, location and this distortion thing… plus a button at the bottom for confirmation. Common sense here would dictate for him to not press on strange apps randomly installed onto his phone, to do something more sensible like bring his phone over to the Yard and maybe have it inspected by the tech guys to see if it had been bugged or infected or something like that.

Common sense would tell him to do everything else besides the one course of action that he’s thinking of right now.

He shouldn’t, he knows, he really shouldn’t—but right now he’s feeling a little more than desperate to have a solid lead and there’s no telling what will happen while he’s trying to pour through the evidence for the case. This app seems to be suggesting that there’s _something_ after Spencer and Greg is willing to hedge his bets for anything he can use. And besides, the worst thing that could probably happen is for his phone to break.

Greg takes a deep breath and steels himself, mentally preparing himself for whatever is to happen next. He hovers his thumb over the CONFIRM button and presses it before he can second guess himself.

“ _Candidate found._ ” The voice that comes is not unlike that of the GPS he has in his car, but there was something about it that was… off. “ _Beginning navigation._ ” 

The world around him suddenly begins to twist and warp, reality itself rippling into something else entirely. Greg jerks back in surprise, his gaze darting at his shifting surroundings before looking down to his phone and tries to back out of the app to no effect. Christ, just what had he gotten himself into here?

He looks back up and sees the world changing right before his eyes, and all Greg can do is to hope that he hadn’t just unknowingly signed himself up for a one-way trip to god knows where.

* * *

“Why an interrogation room? And a holding cell?”

Igor doesn’t seem to be surprised at all by the question; Greg suspects that the man is probably not surprised by anything in the slightest. In a way it reminds him of Mycroft Holmes, who also seems to know everything even before you were aware of it yourself.

Buns—or rather, Caroline, doesn’t seem to appreciate his questions though. “No talking back to our master, Suspect!” she snaps, striking her baton sharply against the side of his desk. There’s a small frizzle and pop as electricity from the baton scorches the desk surface, a warning for Greg to keep in mind. On his other side Braids—Justine—stays quiet and does nothing more besides writing something down onto her clipboard. 

Greg casts a brief glare at the spot where Caroline had struck, then looks up at her with a faint scowl. “Maybe if you don’t threaten me every bloody second I’d actually have a chance to think you’re actually not out for my head.” And then maybe then he can afford to be polite. Hard to be cordial when it feels like anything he says is cause for her to go smacking around with that baton of hers. Part of him is just waiting for the moment when she goes from hitting the desk to actually hitting him instead.

Caroline growls at him as her own glare intensifies, but before she speaks (snaps) Justine smoothly cuts into the conversation. “Caroline, please, do not further antagonize the suspect. We cannot watch over his rehabilitation if he makes as out as his enemies.”

This time Greg turns his unamused glare at Justine. “I’m not a bloody addict.” Really, if they could drop this utter rubbish about ‘rehabilitation’ and being a ‘suspect’ he would appreciate all of this much better. Probably.

A small chuckle comes from Igor, which does little else to temper Greg’s growing annoyance. “I apologize for all the… inconveniences. Truthfully, it is rare to have a guest such as yourself, and admittedly we are not as prepared as we would like to be.”

Greg brings his gaze to the man across the mirror, frowning at his words. “What do you mean?”

“The Velvet Room is usually catered for those with… different potentials.” Igor leans forward, resting his head on the top of clasped hands. “They are potentials marked by the Fool, tricksters who forge their own path. These are the people who most require our assistance. You, on the other hand, are one marked by the Emperor.”

There’s a faint stirring of recognition as to where he had heard those terms before, but Greg can’t recall them on the spot; he’ll have to look it up later, when he’s awake. “Right.” He looks at Igor for a few beats and then shifts in his seat, ignoring the new glare that Caroline throws at him. “So, why me, then? And this whole setup?” 

“The state of this room reflects the state of your own heart.” Igor tips his head up as he replies, casting a glance around the room as if it’s his very first time in this place despite the fact that they’ve had this song and dance several times already. “But I must admit, I am surprised by the shape it has taken. Not quite what I would expect from one who serves the law.”

Greg feels a lump growing in his throat. He doesn’t dare to speak, not trusting himself to be able to respond with the right words. He’s never been good with words and other such things. All he had wanted was to do his job properly, but even now that’s…

“Your reputation has been torn into shreds due to recent events,” Justine is the one who begins to speak, though her gaze is still set on the clipboard and her expression remains impressively neutral. “And now your life’s work is under extreme scrutiny. The freedom you have now is limited at best, and no matter what you do, it feels like it will lead you to the same destination.”

Caroline smacks her baton against the desk once more, as if to emphasize her point. “One wrong step and it’ll be the end of you, Suspect!”

Justine takes a moment to adjust her hat, shifting her weight from one foot to another. “Everything you worked so hard for is now being questioned at every turn. You may be innocent, but the burden of stigma will always be with you. The trust people once held for you is now irrevocably shattered.”

“Not quite a prisoner of fate, but yet close enough of one to be suspected at every turn.” Igor lowers a hand and taps his long, spindly fingers against the surface, the sound somehow coming through the glass. “Ironic as it may be, a ‘suspect’ is the most fitting way to describe you right now.”

Greg thinks of Donovan and her silent frustration, of Anderson and his crippling guilt and the memory of John slamming the door of 221B in his face last week. The lump in his throat gets heavier. 

“But worry not, for that is what we are here for.” With his other hand Igor gestures at their surroundings. “Myself, alongside Caroline and Justine… with this Velvet Room, we will be here to assist with your rehabilitation towards your innocence.”

He supposes that answers _some_ questions, but it also gives him more things to ask (what exactly did this ‘rehabilitation’ entail?) at the same time. Greg opens his mouth to try his luck and ask one of them, but the shrill ringing of an alarm sounds out before he can speak and he’s done this enough times to know what that means.

“It is time.” Justine finally lowers down the clipboard and turns to look at Greg with that unnatural gaze of hers. “Reality calls for you once more, Suspect.”

“Hurry up and go back to sleep!” Caroline taps the end of her baton against the desk, impatience bleeding out from every angle.

Igor gives another quiet chuckle. “We shall meet again another time,” he says, with the faintest trace of amusement in his voice, the unsettling grin on his face never changing. “Until then.”

He waves a hand and the room dims, fading away into nothingness, and the next thing Greg knows he’s staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom, the alarm on his phone blaring to signal the start of his day.

It takes until late in the afternoon for Greg to realize that Igor never did really answer the question of ‘why him’.

* * *

Greg stares at the glowing blue door that stands at the back of the alley.

They’ve been popping up here and there in the most unexpected places—from the back of the building he’s currently living in to right beside the monument at Trafalgar Square (and that had certainly been an unexpected sight while in the middle of chasing down a pickpocket). From the lack of reaction from everybody else Greg more or less figures out that he’s the only one who’s actually able to see the blasted thing.

He doesn’t know if that makes him feel better, considering the fact that ‘here’ now happens to be right next to Scotland Yard. He hadn’t even noticed it at first, having originally come out from his office for a quick stretch and a much needed smoke after having spent the last three hours at his desk dealing with endless paperwork. In the past he would have just done it outside with the rest, but now he opts for a bit more privacy and ducked into the nearby alleyway, not really wanting to deal with the not so subtle whispers from the rest of the force. Internal affairs may have cleared him, but Greg knows that it’ll be a long time before the stigma truly fades away—if it ever will.

As if summoned by his thoughts, the words from his dream a few nights before come back to haunt him, floating in his mind and taunting him with the reality of it.

_(“Everything you worked so hard for is now being questioned at every turn. You may be innocent, but the burden of stigma will always be with you. The trust people once held for you is now irrevocably shattered.”)_

Greg is still half-certain that those _dreams_ are just a product of his guilt and exhaustion, but staring at the door, its surface gleaming with a dark blue color, almost like vel—bugger it all to hell. Just looking at the bloody door and the figure of a girl reading off a clipboard right next to it is starting to make him question himself. He wants to write it off as a trick of his mind, but considering everything that’s been happening in his life…

For a moment Greg debates on marching right up to where the door is and demanding an explanation from Justine—the girl standing there—but decides against it. It’s not like this alley is private by any means, and the last thing he wants to deal with is somebody walking him to see him snap at what to them is probably thin air. 

At the same time, it’s not like he can linger here and pretend that the bloody door is not there at all. Greg mutters a few choice words under his breath and puts his cigarettes away; he’ll just have to make do with a cup of (terrible) coffee or something else just as undesirable. Anyway, the mere thought of dealing with all of this right now had all but soured his urge for a smoke.

Greg gives the glowing blue door and its attendant one more glare before turning back to make his way out of the alleyway and back into the Yard. He ignores the looks that the others give him on the lift as he glares at the unwanted new app on his phone, weighing the pros and cons of switching to a new mobile. After that incident the other day Greg’s tried more than a dozen ways to get rid of the app, but it just keeps reappearing and pretty much the only option he has right now is to chuck the blasted thing into the Thames because the last time he checked, he had not signed himself up for rubbish like masked monsters and cognitive worlds.

He makes a beeline to the pantry to get his coffee first before returning to his office, gesturing for Donovan to speak to him later as he stalks past her desk on the way back. Right now what his focus on should be trying to find a weak spot in Spencer’s falsified alibis. He only had a few more days before the case would officially be tried in court, and Greg was not willing to just let Ian Parker take the blame for his own brother’s death. He had seen enough of those cases as it is without this falsely-charged one adding to the list.

He pauses at the door to take one sip of his coffee, appreciating the caffeine no matter how bad it tastes, then steps into the room.

“About time you got back here! Geez, do cops really take such long breaks like what the telly shows?”

Greg swallows down the coffee in his mouth out of reflex, wincing as the too hot liquid scalds his throat on the way down. For a moment he thinks it’s one of the higher-ups who’s addressing him (even though he certainly doesn’t remember being informed about any kind of meeting with said higher-ups), but then sees that there’s nobody at all and he looks around his room in a daze, trying to find the source of the voice.

“Down here!”

Greg slowly brings his gaze down as told and his mind comes to a halt as he finds himself staring at a black and white cat. It looks back at him with eyes that were far too bright and blue for it to be natural, silent for a few seconds before its nose twitches and its face promptly twists into a look of disgust. “Ugh, what are you even drinking? Is that even supposed to be coffee?”

The cat is—

The cat is talking.

_The cat is talking about his coffee._

“Cats can’t drink coffee,” he blurts out, unable to really think of anything else to say. His mind must have decided to flown the coop and Greg can’t blame it for that. What else is he supposed to do when facing a bloody talking cat?

“I am _not_ a cat!” It hisses back, glaring sharply. “This just what happened when I came to this world! I’m still an honest-to-god human!”

The words ‘honest-to-god human’ echoes in Greg’s mind, a memory from something else just a few days before, and his eyes widen as he puts two and two together. “You’re that bloody monster cat!”

 _”I am not a monster cat!”_ If the cat hadn’t pissed before it certainly is now, and if looks could kill Greg is certain he would be dead right where he’s standing. “If this is what I get for helping you out in the Metaverse—”

“Sir, is something the matter?”

It occurs to Greg right there and then that he had spent the last several minutes standing at the doorway of his office with the door still wide open.

With a glare he reaches down to grab it by the scruff of its neck, promptly ignoring its yowl of protest. “Everything’s fine, don’t worry!” he calls back while properly stepping into his office.

“But people were saying something about a cat meowing…”

Meowing? Greg would think more on that, but right now there are more important matters to deal with. “Probably just some loud strays nearby,” he says, giving the cat another silent glare from the corner of his eyes before it can protest again. “They’ll quiet down soon enough.”

Without waiting for a response Greg closes the door to his office and walks over to his desk, unceremoniously dumping the cat onto the surface (and pointedly ignoring its protests again) before throwing himself onto his chair. He presses one hand over his face once he’s settles down, trying to quash down the headache that’s slowly building up from the back of his mind. Christ, just what is his life becoming now?

“Hey, we’re not done here!”

Greg thinks about the box of Panadol stashed in the top drawer and removes his hand to glare at the cat yet again. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, wandering into the Met like this?” There were cameras everywhere, for crying out loud. Greg wouldn’t be surprised if Pest Control came bursting into his room at any second.

The cat visibly rolls its eyes back in return. “As if some cameras were going to stop me. I am a professional, you know.” If Greg didn’t know better, it almost sounds like it was insulted.

He’s definitely going to need that paracetamol soon. “Why are you even here?” And for that matter, _how_ did it even come here in the first place? It’s pretty obvious that the cat didn’t have a phone, much less an app that came with the phone.

“To find you, of course!” The cat gets up on all four of its paws and gives him an annoyed look. “Why else would I even bother to come all this way?”

Greg gives up and reaches for the top drawer of his desk. “I’d rather you not come over at all.” Because seeing the cat is now reminding him of everything else after he went to use that damn app. From the weird Buckingham Palace-esque place he had been thrown into to the masked monsters that came after him—Greg had almost been able to convince himself that it was nothing more than a lucid dream. Until the cat appeared. 

“Not even when I can help you with Spencer?”

Greg turns to stare at the cat as his hand falls away from the drawer handle. “How the hell do you know about Spencer?”

The cat tilts its head. “I overheard some things here and there while finding your office.” It shifts to sit back down on its hunches and starts to lick one of its paws. “Not to mention that you _were_ in his Palace. You’re investigating him for some crime, right?”

“…yeah.” Which is what he is supposed to be doing now, even though a good part of him knows that he’s not really going to end up with anything. The evidence they had is next to useless, and he had secured his alibis well. Unless Spencer randomly decided to give himself up, Greg couldn’t see any other way out.

“What if I told you that you can make Spencer confess to his own crimes?”

Greg stares at the cat even harder this time. “What?” Is it even listening to what it’s saying? Make Spencer give himself up? There was absolutely no way. The tosser had bought himself an iron-clad defense; it would take nothing short of a miracle for something like that to actually happen.

“Your problem’s solved if Spencer decides to confess to his guilt, isn’t it?” The cat finishes licking its paw and moves to another. “So why not make it happen? You’ve got a way into his Palace, so it’s just a matter of taking it down.”

Greg thinks about the Panadol once again. “Cat. Start making some bloody sense before I toss you out.”

The cat puts down its paw and gives him an unimpressed look. “If we’re going to talk, at least use my name. I have it for a reason.”

Greg lets out a loud sigh and rubs the bridge of his nose while he attempts to recall the name of the cat. It was… M-something. Some funny name of sorts that was close to Mycroft. “…Morgan?”

“ _Ugh._ This is why I don’t want to work with amateurs.” Greg lowers his hand just in time to see the cat perform another eye roll. “It’s _Morgana_. You better remember it, coz’ I’m not gonna say it a third time.”

“I’ll be sure to put it on a post-it note,” Greg returns, as dryly as he can manage.

“And now that we have that out of the way…” The cat—Morgana—jerks its head in the direction of the case files that sit at the edge of his desk. “All that evidence isn’t going to help you, or else you wouldn’t have been snooping around in his Palace in the first place. Taking it down is the only way you have to ensure that Spencer confesses.”

Greg isn’t sure how he’s supposed to feel about a cat knowing about any of this. “How did you know about this?” Because Greg certainly hadn’t told him much when they met back in the… place. Palace. Whatever.

“Like I said, I overheard a lot of things while finding you.” Morgana straightens its head back up and stares unblinkingly at him. “You don’t have any other option left here, do you? It’s either take this chance or let Spencer get away with his crimes.”

He had to admit that the cat is right. Sure, he could continue to investigate after the case is closed, but it would be too late by then—Ian Parker would be convicted for a crime that he did not commit, and Spencer would have the chance to destroy anything else that threatened him. If he didn’t nab him now, then he was never going to be able to catch that bastard.

It had been situations like these that made him take a leap of faith and place his trust in Sherlock Holmes when nobody else would. And as much of a wanker as Sherlock had been, the good that he had done vastly outweighed the bad. Maybe now was the time do take that leap again, especially if it meant being able to get the real criminal.

Greg closes his eyes and forces himself to take a deep breath. “Right,” he starts, and tries not to think too hard on the fact that he’s about to bargain with a talking cat. “What do you propose we do?”

Morgana smiles like the cat who just got the cream. “We break into his Palace and steal his Treasure.”

* * *

The sky is overcast with clouds when Greg gets to the cemetery. At least it doesn’t look like it’ll rain, though the thought doesn’t give Greg much comfort. In a way, the rain might be a welcome change from the all-encompassing silence that hangs in the area as he walks the semi-familiar trail to Sherlock’s grave. It’s the first time he’s allowed himself to come here ever since the funeral; it had been impossible to face him after everything that had happened. To be honest it’s still incredibly hard, but with what he’s going to do tomorrow…

Well. Greg hopes that it’ll put some of his own regrets to rest, at the very least.

He takes the last few steps that allow him to see Sherlock’s grave in full detail, then blinks when he realizes that there’s somebody there as well. Somebody who happens to be one Mycroft Holmes.

Holmes turns at the sound of his approaching footsteps and regards him with a small nod of his head, staying still as he reaches the grave. “Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he greets him once Greg is within earshot.

“’lo.” It’s hard to really be in any kind chatty mood when at a place like this, but Greg attempts to do so nonetheless. He comes to a stop next to Holmes, right in front of the grave, and his eyes can’t help but track the name carved onto the stone. _Sherlock Holmes._ Simple and elegant and neat without the usual other epitaphs that tend to follow. He supposes Sherlock had never been one for pointless flattery.

Greg loses himself in his thoughts for a while, only coming back to reality when Holmes politely clears his throat. “Are you not going to put down the flowers?”

Right. Flowers. Greg fumbles a little as he places down the bouquet of white carnations he had brought along with him. It does nothing at all for an apology, but it’s all that he can give right now. 

He straightens back up after placing the flowers down, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, his gaze back onto the tombstone. Holmes stands next to him, equally silent, only blinking when a passing breeze brushes by the both of them, sending a handful of dead leaves spiraling into the air.

Greg doesn’t really know how long the silence stretches on for, but it’s not him who ends up breaking it. “I know this may be rather belated,” Holmes begins, his voice soft despite the fact that there’s only the two of them here. “But please, do not blame yourself for what happened. Sherlock made the choice himself.”

The words are… Greg wouldn’t exactly say that they were unexpected, but it’s still something he didn’t think Mycroft Holmes would actually express. It’s one thing to think about it, but another to say it. He knows full well how hard it can be to express forgiveness; it’s something he hadn’t quite been able to do with his wife. 

Still, as much as he appreciates the apparent magnanimity from the elder Holmes, it does little to ease the guilt that eats within him. Greg clenches the inside of his coat pockets and again recalls his last conversation with Sherlock. If he hadn’t been so stupid about the whole thing…

“If I could have—” he starts, but Holmes cuts him off with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“You did exactly what you had to do. There is nothing wrong with that.” Holmes lowers his hand and rests it back on top of the other, both of them against the handle of his ever-present umbrella. “Insane as Moriarty was, he knew how to push the right buttons to get the results that he desired.”

Greg can’t find anything to respond to that, and so he remains quiet, staring at the grave as if it could give him any kind of answer. It’s mad to think that this could be the ending that Moriarty wants; that he would be so willing to shoot himself in the mouth so that Sherlock would jump to his death. There had to be some other reason, something that would have forced Sherlock to do something so extreme. But whatever answer that may be, Greg supposes they’ll never be able to find out now.

“I’m sorry.” It’s all Greg can eventually bring himself to say. Sherlock and his brother may have had their differences, but they were still siblings in the end. Having three of his own, Greg can’t even begin to imagine what it would be like if any one of them had suddenly passed away in this fashion. For all that the Holmes brothers were like, they were still just as human as him or anybody else out there. He allows himself to glance over to Holmes, saying the first thing that came to his mind. “If you ever need to talk, I—”

“I appreciate the offer, Inspector, but I assure you that I will be fine.” Holmes cuts him off once again, and before Greg can try to speak again he turns with his back facing him, umbrella hooked onto his arm. “My brother made his choice, and all I can do is live with the consequences of his actions.” A brief pause. “Do send my regards to Dr. Watson when you see him.” 

With those parting words Holmes goes to take his leave, and all Greg can do is to watch the other man as he walks away. His gait may be unhurried and steady but Greg remembers the moment from earlier when Holmes had clenched his hand around the handle of his umbrella upon his apology, the brief spark of pain in his eyes which he had been unable to hide completely.

The world may have lost a good man in Sherlock Holmes, but for some people such losses were far more than that.

Greg turns back to look at the grave and clenches his fists once more. He has failed once before, and now he is not going to waste this second chance that has been given to him. 

This time, he will make sure to do what is right.

* * *

Wrong.

Wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

Everything is all wrong, and once again it is all his fault.

Greg stifles down a grunt of pain as one of the monsters (Shadows, he remembers the name now) grinds its plated heel further down against his hand. Close by him lies Morgana who looks incredibly beat up from the attack he had taken earlier. Greg grits his teeth and attempts to reach out for him, but then stops when the heel of a boot presses against Morgana’s head, and he grits his teeth at hearing the cry of pain that the cat lets out.

 ** _“Did you really think it would be this easy?”_** The voice is cruel and mocking and utterly arrogant as it revels in its own triumph. Greg raises his head so that he can send a glare towards what he’s told to be the shadow of Robert Spencer, letting him see the undisguised hatred he has for this monster of a man. 

Although dressed in a manner reminiscent of the Prince, Spencer’s shadow acts nothing like the royalty he pretends to be in this twisted version of Buckingham Palace. **_“You think you can just barge in here and come after my Treasure without any consequence,”_** it states, sounding far too amused about it all. **_“Sadly, I regret to inform you that things in the cognitive world aren’t as easy as they are in reality. Then again…”_**

The shadow looks down at Greg and regards him with a sneer. **_“You always had trouble even in reality, didn’t you, Detective Inspector Lestrade?”_**

Greg feels a vein pulsing at the corner of his jaw. “It’d certainly make my job easier if wankers like you let yourselves be caught,” he snaps back.

 ** _“Always looking for the easy way out, aren’t you?”_** The shadow’s sneering gets all the more prominent, the grin on its face nearly splitting its face into two. **_“Is that why you worked with that so-called ‘consulting detective’? Let him do all the work for you while happily taking the credit for it?”_**

Even in their current situation Greg can feel Morgana’s questioning glace, but now was not really the time and place for this. And besides— “You don’t have the right to talk about Sherlock.” People like Spencer, they would never understand it—the good that Sherlock had done when he lived, the path he had chosen to walk. He may be no John Watson but at least he can appreciate that much about the man.

The shadow hums unconvincingly. **_“And I suppose you do? Even after what you’ve done to him?”_**

Greg flinches before he can help himself. “I—” he tries to retort, but his mind cannot find the words to continue. Holmes may have forgiven him but the reality of the situation doesn’t change. Like it or not, he had fallen into the role Moriarty set up for him. Because of him, Sherlock is dead.

The guilt keeps him quiet as the silence stretches into something far too telling, and the shadow throws its head back and howls with laughter once it puts two and two together. **_“Oh, the look on your face!”_** he cackles, voice loud enough to echo across the room. **_“That’s exactly what I like to see! Poor little Ian Parker had that exact same expression when he realized what I’d done. It’s so precious that I could just bottle it up.”_**

Morgana takes in a few, stuttering breaths from his spot underneath the shadow’s boot, voice shaking as he speaks. “Don’t… don’t give up like this…!”

 ** _“His death really must have been an inconvenience.”_** The shadow glances down at Morgana and grins viciously when it twists his foot and presses down even harder against the cat’s head, clearly taking joy at the pain that it’s causing. **_“Now you’re so desperate to arrest me that you’re working with talking cartoon cats. Has the Yard’s standards fallen that low?”_**

Greg bares his teeth in a threatening snarl. “You won’t get away with this, Spencer,” he growls warningly. “You can’t avoid the law forever.”

 _ **“That’s rich, coming from you.”**_ It gives Morgana one final press before nudging him away, then proceeds to step towards Greg, coming to a stop in front of him. Greg never takes his gaze off the shadow, even when he crouches down and grabs his chin none too kindly, jerking his face up roughly so that their gazes can meet. _**“You’re the one who’s currently running around playing vigilante. What do you think the Yard will think of you if they knew about this?”**_

Despite himself, Greg feels a momentary burst of courage swelling up within him. “They can’t prove something like this.” There is no way that they can.

The smile on the shadow’s face turns twisted once more. _**“Fabricating evidence isn’t just limited to ensuring my safety, you know,”**_ he nearly sings the words out, and Greg feels the courage inside him swiftly turning into rage.

“You _wanker_ —” he begins, but gets cut off with a wheeze when the shadow shifts its grip to wrap its hand around his throat. Greg instinctively struggles in an effort to get out from its grip, but only finds himself being hoisted up with inhuman strength. He dangles in the air, every part of him desperately fighting, hands futilely trying to get the shadow’s hand away from his throat.

The shadow laughs as he watches Greg struggle uselessly, yellow eyes flaring in delight. **_“I can already see the headlines: Disgraced DI Breaks Law, Gets Caught. Not the most original title, but well.”_** His smile widens at the pause. **_“I’m sure I can think of something better after I’m through with you and your pet.”_**

With another laugh the shadow tosses Greg away from his grip, watching for a few amused seconds as the man lands with a loud thump onto the polished marble floors. Greg can’t keep down the cry of pain that he lets out when he’s thrown back onto the floor, every part of him throbbing in pain, his throat still on fire as he gasps and chokes for much needed air.

 _ **“I feel sorry for you, Inspector Lestrade.”**_ Greg forces himself to look over to where the shadow is now, eyes widening when he sees that it’s approaching Morgana with a blade held in its hand. He could fall, but Morgana is innocent in all of this. He couldn’t live with himself if somebody else died because of yet another one of his failures.

He screams for his body to move but it’s too battered to obey. “Stop!” he cries out hoarsely, feeling tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t do this again. Not again, not like this.

The shadow pays no attention to his pleading. **_“You clung on so desperately to your title and your job, and this is where it gets you.”_** He stops in front of Morgana and glances back to Greg, the self-satisfied smile still on his face. _**“But you don’t have to worry, because soon I’ll relieve it off you.”**_

Relieve it off him—Greg snarls and struggles to move his body, forcing himself to simply _move_ even though he hurts all over. None of this had just been about his job; this had all been his own foolish quest to redeem himself, to be able to ease his own guilty conscience, and now somebody is going to die because of his own stupidity. He would die first before allowing that to happen. 

_Then stand up,_ a voice whispers in his mind, a voice that sounds like him but yet more at the same time. _Stand up and make your claim, Gregory Lestrade._

“You think… I’m just doing this because of my job?”

The shadow tilts its head questioningly. **_“What?”_**

“Do you think I’m doing this just because I’m a copper?” Slowly but surely Greg manages to get himself on all fours, though his head remains bowed at the moment. “That I’m doing this just to keep my job?”

The shadow lets out a derisive snort. **_“Why else would you go all this way—”_** it starts, only to stop when it gets the receiving end of the glare that Greg is giving right now, who now has raised his head to look at it. His face is bloodied and his body is bruised and broken, but his spirit is stronger than ever, unyielding to this or to anything else.

“Because _I don’t care_.” Greg slowly pushes himself back up onto his feet, ignoring the aches and protests of his battered body as his mind whirls with the memories and images of the people close him and the suffering they were through now because of his actions.

Donovan and the regret that flashes across her face every so often.

Anderson and the guilt that had consumed him whole and drove him mad.

Sherlock, with his lifeless gaze that bores straight into him, the image of it that haunts his nightmares every night.

John and the grief that would never leave him, a void left in his heart that could never be filled.

Mycroft Holmes and the expressionless mask on his face as he stares silently at his brother’s tombstone, hands gripping the handle of his umbrella so tightly that his knuckles have turned white.

“My job, my status, my life…” he trails off for a moment and makes himself stand taller, to stay on his feet, unwilling to bend and break like before because he’s had enough of that. After Sherlock, after what the Met had done, after _this_ … 

“I don’t care _what_ it takes,” he snarls out, no longer able to temper down the frustration and rage that had been bubbling within him for so long. Greg musters out all the anger that he feels right now and glares at Spencer, hands clenching up into trembling fists. “I’ll give up anything that I have, as long as bastards like you get what that you truly deserve!”

**_Now you’ve done it._ **

The voice comes from nowhere, booming in his mind without warning as if it had always been there with him for his whole life. For a second Greg is lost at its abrupt appearance but before he can question it his head suddenly explodes into a maelstrom of pain. He gasps from the shock of it, hands coming up to instinctively clutch his head, but it does nothing at all to ease the pain that only seems to increase exponentially.

**_That’s quite the bold proclamation that you’ve made—so very unlike you… or perhaps, it is the true self that is finally speaking up after all this time._ **

Even through the pain the voice continues to speak, unperturbed, as if it’s so far away from the pain that he now feels that it didn’t seem to matter at all. Or perhaps… it had accepted the pain and made it part of itself, a part of _him_ that now howls alongside the pain in his head, roaring its demand to come out and show its might to all that would bear witness.

**_Will you continue to let these injustices lie unanswered, the laws you hold so dearly now trampled underfoot? Are you content to watch everything you’ve worked for torn asunder once again, or will you finally take the courage to act as you must?_ **

Greg knew he didn’t need to voice his answer out loud, but he does so anyway. “No more standing back,” he grits out, words coming out as steady as his feet are against the ground even though the pain threatens to consume him whole. “I’ve made my decision.”

**_Then, let us proceed forth with the contract._ **

The pain grows, intensifying and then _burning_ , as if the flames of Hell itself were licking at his skin from both inside as well as out, so hot that it felt like his skin would melt it off his face entirely. His hands shift from clutching his head to clawing his face, trying to do anything he can in order to ease the sheer agony that he felt as a scream tears from his throat. Nothing else existed right now beyond the pain and the voice that continues to speak even through his cries of anguish.

 ** _I am thou, thou art I._** The voice grew ever louder in his head, commanding and _demanding_ , the sheer presence of it somehow threading through all his agony and strife, even more all-consuming than the pain in his head. **_No more shall you remain on the sidelines as before. You, who have been betrayed by the very laws you once tried to uphold…_**

His vision narrows while the skin on his face begins to itch unbearably, as if a million filthy files were buzzing around on it right now. The pain inside him roars to a crescendo, every part of him rising and surging, his very _soul_ boiling with the rage of a million betrayals and more.

No more pain. No more regrets.

He is done with all of that.

With a trembling hand Greg reaches up and curls his fingers around the broken, jagged edges of the mask that had just appeared on his face, knowing without words exactly what to do next.

**_…now it is time to show these infidels what justice truly means!_ **

Greg clenches his jaw and refuses to let himself scream as he tears the mask away from his face, biting down on his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood as he feels more of it roll down his face from where he had torn the mask off. But even with all the blood he can see and feel he no longer feels the pain or the anguish that had been consuming him moments ago. The pain is part of him now, just as that voice of his other self—the voice of his Persona that materializes from him, and Greg doesn’t need to turn back and see the grand, royal figure on its magnificent steed that stands tall behind him.

He feels the power that surrounds and cloaks him, the power that comes _from_ him, rolling off him in waves as the force of it sends the items around him flying away. He sees the stunned look of Spencer’s Shadow that slowly turns into rage as it points at him and snaps at his Shadow underlings. **_“Get him! Get him, you fools!”_**

“Greg…” he can hear Morgana gasping in awe from nearby, and he turns to see that the cat is back up on his feet, apparently having managed to recover during the whole exchange.

The man himself clenches his jaw once more and returns his gaze at the approaching Shadows coming to fight them. “We’ll talk later, Morgana,” he says, then draws out his sword from its scabbard, the weight of it perfect in his hand as he points the tip at their enemies. “Right now, it’s time to fight.”

He lowers his sword and gets into a fighting stance, his body thrumming with energy and anticipation. Never has he felt so ready and complete, every part of him honed for this very moment of his life. For what feels like the first time in the fifty two years of his life, he finally has a _purpose_.

Greg tightens the grip on his sword and prepares himself for the coming battle—and battles—ahead. “No more standing back. It’s time for us to step up, Arthur!”

* * *

The grin on Igor’s face is wider than ever when Greg steps into the room that night.

“You’ve awakened to your powers,” he says in lieu of a usual greeting. “And what an impressive power it is to behold.”

Greg, still half delirious from the rush of everything that’s happened, can only blink in confusion. “Powers?” he echoes back even as he feels that newly awakened part of him thrumming with pleasure, pleased at being noticed.

Igor gives an affirmative hum. “It is called Persona,” he explains. “A Persona is, in the simplest terms, a ‘mask’—an armor that the heart wears as you confront worldly matters. No one mask is the same, just as no one person is like the other.”

Justine makes a soft hum of her own from Greg’s right side. “Out of all the masks within the collective unconscious, the one you have chosen is that of King Arthur, the legendary knight.”

“A bold choice, Suspect!” Caroline doesn’t strike her baton against the desk this time, but the smile on her face is far from kind. “Now let’s see if you can live up to its expectations.”

Greg feels his head spinning rather badly. “I didn’t _choose_ anything,” he finally says after a pause.

“You chose to fight against the chains of society,” Justine returns, her voice as calm as ever. “That is the only thing that matters.”

“And now we can truly begin your rehabilitation.” Fingers laced together once more, Igor leans forward in his seat and looks at Greg with that never-changing grin on his face. “You will indeed be a most interesting guest for what is to come.”

Greg opens his mouth to ask what Igor means at that last part, but the bell rings before he can start to speak and in the next moment finds himself staring at the ceiling of his bedroom just as with all the other times. He continues to stare for several more minutes before a shuffling sound comes from next to him, and Greg turns to see Morgana sound asleep beside his pillow, the cat’s chest rising and falling in slow, deep breaths.

He cracks a smile despite himself, returning to lie on his back as he thinks about yesterday and the power that now resides within him. Arthur. His persona. 

“A second chance,” he mutters to himself.

He swears not to waste it.

* * *

The TV studio looms before them, parts of it warped in ways that bend the laws of reality, but reality has never been able to apply itself correctly when they’re inside the Metaverse. It is, after all, a cognitive world.

Greg briefly eyes the door to the Velvet Room and gives a passing nod to Justine standing beside it and then turns his attention to the rest of the team. It’s just the four of them but they’ve been doing good work thus far in the six months since they’ve started this whole thing, and after this particular target they’re hopefully going to do even better. 

Morgana looks up and gives him a wicked grin. “Ready for this, Knight?”

Despite his own trepidation Greg can’t help but smile back in return. “Let’s do this.”

Once again, the time had come for the Renegades to strike.

**Author's Note:**

> \- The 'Ian Parker' mentioned in this story is indeed the same Ian who joins the Renegades; he awakens to his Persona a bit after Lestrade and the three of them take down Spencer (who is actually Ian's boss, and Ian had been working with his brother to get evidence to convict Spencer; think of it of something like Ace Attorney 1-2 with Maya and Mia).
> 
> \- Gabriel(le) joins them about two months later. She's a fan of Sherlock (he solved the murder of her family relatively early in his career) and got wrapped up in the Renegade's latest target when trying to do some Sherlock-ing of her own. One thing lead to another and she joins them after awakening to her own Persona.
> 
> \- Lestrade's metaverse outfit is sort of a modified version of the [Samurai](http://vignette1.wikia.nocookie.net/megamitensei/images/c/c1/Flynn_render.png/revision/latest?cb=20120921144355) outfits from SMT IV. It's got a dark grey/silver coloration scheme instead, the overcoat is more Western (with a waistcoat inside because fuck yes waistcoats) and doesn't have sleeves. His lower arms + wrists and knees + lower legs are covered in armor, and his mask is a full Arthurian-style helmet with broken bits at the edge for him to do the whole mask pulling thing.
> 
> \- After dwelling about it for a while Lestrade's ultimate persona is _probably_ going to be Alexander, going from a legendary king/knight to legendary... whatever Alexander is. Also the idea of Lestrade's persona turning into some kind of fortress ala Final Fantasy 13 amuses me to no end.
> 
> \- I love social links and assigning characters to tarots so I have a small list of Lestrade's possible social links and their effects (doing it in the style of the game):
> 
> * Mycroft Holmes; The Devil. Works in the government in a 'minor capacity'. Provides information about targets in exchange for your cooperation with his requests. (Gives sidequests.)  
> 
> * Sherlock Holmes; Death. A former 'consulting detective'. Currently hiding underground after faking his death in order to dismantle a giant criminal network. (That annoying plot-relevant social link.)  
> 
> * John Watson; The Hanged Man. An honorably discharged army doctor who works at the local clinic. Currently trying to get over the death of his best friend. (Sells stuff that has effects similar to Chihaya's abilities.)  
> 
> * Molly Hooper; The High Priestess. A mortician working at St. Barts. Provides much needed medical aid when required. (Sells healing items and such, etc.)  
> 
> * Philip Anderson; The Tower. Forensics expect in your team currently under suspension. Head of the group 'The Empty Hearse'. (...probably has skills like Ohya's. Hahaha.)  
> 
> * Ian Parker; The Hermit. Adviser and strategist of the Renegades. Currently trying to settle into his new job while handling the inheritance his brother left him. (Probably has Hifumi's stuff along with the usual teammate abilities.)  
> 
> * Gabrielle Anders; Wheel of Fortune. A specialist in digital security and support member of the Renegades. Has requested your help on a personal issue. (Combination of Futaba and Makoto's confidant abilities.)
> 
> The rest I don't really have much of an idea of would be Donovan (Moon??), Dimmock (Sun mostly because its funny), Stella Hopkins (Empress, probably), Gregson (Justice??). The original persona characters (Igor, Justine + Caroline, Morgana) retain their original arcanas. (Fool, Strength and Magician).
> 
> \- I put way too much thought into AUs.
> 
> \- I want to write a Mystrade sequel, save me.


End file.
